Mens rea
by witchfingers
Summary: Prosecuted? Guilty? I see, though luck. But don't worry: I've got –the- guy for you. Never heard of anyone he didn't get out. Interested, eh? The name's Ishtar –'Dark' Malik Ishtar, criminal defense attorney.
1. 17 years ago

_Dedicated to my very supportive sister :)_

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 ** _Notice about the names used in this story_** _: I will use 'Malik' to refer to Yami Malik. The regular Malik will be named Nam, the name he uses when he goes undercover to befriend Yuugi._

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 _ **Mens rea** : __the defendant undertakes his action either intending for, or hoping that, a certain result will follow._

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 ** _17 years ago_** **.**

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 _The sirens blare, outside. The curtains flutter like a ghost into the room flooded by bleak, sterile street-light._

He stands in the living room. _He_ doesn't look like a ghost, but he feels like one, in a way.

 _The police barge in –desperate and warrantless; alerted by the (distraught) calls of the (many, different) neighbors._

They've been informed of relentless screaming, coming from that house.

They don't expect _him_. They freeze, for a second, under his glacial eyes; and that moment drags on forever. Reinforcements burst through the door, restraining him. The knife, sleek with clotting blood, slides without effort out of his limp hand.

They talk- the sound of a radio fills the air with static and urgency; they address him but their voices dissolve into background noise, and all he hears is the amplified beating of his heart in his ears, like an ominous ceremonial drum.

Ceremonial, yes.

Indeed. Ceremonial.

The taste of victory replaces the taste of his father's insults. A budding smile adorns his lips.

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He is followed into the police car by the disenchantment and fear in the police officer's faces.

They are followed into their nightmares by his eyes –vacant, expressionless eyes, that seemed to pierce them through the darkness.

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The police officers in the station do not even try to be friendly towards him. Even though he's ten-years-old, and completely alone. Even though it's biting December and he wears only a loose, flimsy shirt.

Because his eyes are cruel and his clothes are covered in blood: in the front, with his father's. In the back, with his own.

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They tell him they're opening a file for him, a "booking jacket", even though the warrant for his arrest is only being issued.

They take his picture, his fingerprints. Tell him that everything he says can be used against him. That he has the right to a lawyer.

They're being careful, treating him like an adult when he's only a child.

He doesn't care at all.

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He's put in jail. An officer tells him he'll be making an initial appearance in court the following day.

They give him food, but he doesn't touch it. His body is working on something else –adrenaline, exhilaration. The painful memories of years of abuse begin to dissipate, and his father's agonizing screams take their place. He feels it's a positive change.

It has to be.

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Hours (or minutes?) later, a social worker walks into his little cell, flanked by a police officer, and, rather unexpectedly, a nurse.

'Don't try anything funny, kid,' the officer warns. He gets only a glacial glare in response.

The social worker seems nice. She tells him he ought to eat something, that it'll get him out of his state of post-traumatic stress. She explains that the nurse will have a look at him, and help him get clean and into fresh clothes.

She does not say he looks like he just committed murder.

Yet, he does. He just committed murder.

'Should we help you out of that shirt, or would you rather do it yourself?' she asks, kindly.

His answer is a fleeting look of distrust, but he finds his will to fight quite drained. He lets them do, like a mannequin, and, under the wary-watchful eye of the police officer, the nurse cleans his face with a wet rag.

They take the shirt off. They take the bandages off, too: the bandages that, wrapped around his whole torso, are rusty with days'-old blood and lymph. He impassively sees their faces go from shocked/ confused to downright sickened, and finds he finds himself flinching at the acrid stench of rot that wafts from the mess in his back, together with them.

'What the fuck…' the officer trails off. Heaving, the social worker has to leave the room.

The nurse silently starts to disinfect the open, infected gashes in his torn flesh; and, though he distantly feels the man's cold fingers touching him, he feels no pain, and he doesn't even flinch.

His ears catch the subtle sound of a camera shutter.

Someone's taken a picture.

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They've dressed him in pastel hues, but his messy hair sticks up and his eyes have dark rings around them.

Standing before the judge's neutral gaze, he feels neutral as well. Tame. Maybe for the first time in his life, ever.

'Your name is Malik, is it not?', the judge asks, and, getting no visible response, he continues, 'I always rue to see ones so young in this court. Your record says you are 10 years old. Is that correct?'

He nods, curtly. The judge sighs.

'You are charged with first-degree murder, child. The police report says you were found by the victim's corpse, holding the murder weapon in your hand and covered in the victim's blood. I am sorry to say that charges will most likely be brought against you.'

Child-Malik realizes that he's not spoken since that night.

'Am I gonna have to die?' he asks.

Despite his monotone and detachment, there is not one person in the courtroom who, through his words, does not die a little inside.

'I hope not,' the judge says, 'I hope not.' He quiets the murmuring in the room with a soft knock of his mallet on the wooden desk. Then, he speaks again:

'You have the right to an attorney. If you cannot afford one, the State will appoint one for you.'

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No one offers bail to a killer child that has nowhere to go.

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In jail, the wounds in his back begin to heal.

Weeks later, the Grand Jury issues him a bill of indictment.

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 _The court picks him at random to act as some kid's State-appointed lawyer._

 _The officer that takes the file to his lugubrious office makes a quick recount of the case and the accusation:_

 _'The neighbors called, warning us of screams coming from the Ishtar's house. The father had a record for domestic abuse, the wife was found dead under strange circumstances a couple of years ago. When our boys went in, the kid was standing there in the middle of the room, in the dark, looming over the skinned corpse of his father, soaked in his blood… must've been like a vision of the devil. Scary as fuck, I beg your pardon –but some of the guys asked for some shrink sessions after that, and we see weird shit daily, you know._

 _'The kid got some medical attention while he was in custody. He had signs of years of abuse, you can read all about it in the files. Also, couple of days before they took him in, he'd gone through some sort of ritualistic initiation rite- he's got some kind of ancient scripture carved onto his back, presumably by his father, and presumably with the murder weapon. He's not talked about it. You draw your conclusions, sir.'_

 _He adjusts his crimson lenses, and takes a long look at the police officer._

 _'I will,', he says, wolfishly, 'I most certainly will.'_

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His state-appointed attorney is a huge black man called Robert N. Zork, who wears an equally huge and equally black trench-coat, and tacky crimson lenses. He has graying hair, and the raspy voice of a recidivist chain-smoker.

They meet in Malik's small cell, under surveillance of a burly policeman.

'I _could've_ let you off with voluntary manslaughter, snuck in some nice heat-of-passion defense. But you _had_ to play the psycho, and you _had_ to skin your dad's back, right?'

He gets no answer, but the kid's eerie eyes boring into his. Daring him to question him.

Zork shrugs. 'Brutal, but honest. It's how I roll, too, kid. I won't get you out, but they're not gonna be giving you life, I'll tell you that.'

The time in jail gradually returned to him his innate defiance, and he narrows his eyes when he asks 'Don't you want to know if I killed him, like everybody else?'

'I don't care,' Zork says dismissively, 'That's not what matters in court, kid. Lemme tell you this, and hear me carefully: what matters is, how well you act, and how well you lie.'

Zork believes no kid should look as cunning as his… _client_. He sees the kid's eyes guarding his thoughts carefully –they leave the lawyer's face to inspect instead the gaudy, golden pendant he wears: it's shaped like a ring with a triangle within it, and five dangling spikes.

'Your taste is terrible,' Malik comments, apparently disregarding him.

'That's _your_ opinion,' Zork smirks, derisively, 'And now, for the heart-to-heart attorney/defendant moment, do tell- _did_ you kill him… Malik?'

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A date for an arraignment (another hearing before the judge) is set.

However, the prosecutor is hopeful for a successful plea bargain. He doesn't like having to take kids to court, much less have them tried as adults; but he's up-to-date with Malik's file and the horrors within it, and the more he re-reads it, the less it looks like thoughtless homicide, and the more like premeditated, cold-blooded revenge.

The prosecution would agree to have him convicted for murder, it may accept a mitigating circumstance. But Zork is a vicious haggler, and, after a long debate, they settle for voluntary manslaughter. He even (somehow) wriggles the defenses of infancy, and irresistible impulse into the deal

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He comes before the judge again, to plead guilty to voluntary manslaughter.

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He is sentenced to 15 years in prison, with the benefit of parole as from the 10th year, conditional upon his finishing the compulsory secondary education. Attending to his minority, the judge allows him to pursue further education from prison, if he so desires.

He leaves the courthouse as he entered it –silent, ominous –and wearing black for the last time in, at least, ten years.

'That went well,' Zork says, whistling some off-key ghetto song, 'Though ten years is a long time, _son_.'

If that word offends him, he does not show it.

'Fine by me,' he says, and his voice is cold, calculating, 'I know how to wait.'

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In prison, he gains a terrible reputation.

There is hardly an inmate who does not learn to fear him as the years go by; and while he earns himself the nickname of 'Dark', or 'Tomb Keeper', he also finishes high school, manages an undergraduate degree, and eventually graduates law school.

For all the years he spends immersed in the darkness, carving himself a niche within the scum of society, he smoothly proves to the world one significant thing: that he knows precisely _how_ to wait.

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Ten years later, a wild-haired, well-built, _free_ man walks into Robert N. Zork's office. He's got a degree under his arm, and tattoos covering his scars.

'Get me an expungement,' he says in a deep, commanding voice.

'Son,' Zork says, looking at him over the rim of his crimson glasses, 'you're not buying a latte.'

'Nah,' he says, shrugging, toying with a practiced, enigmatic smirk, 'But a _future_ –who knows.'

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 **Author's Note:**

 ** _"expungement of record":_** Process by which record of criminal conviction is destroyed or sealed from the state or Federal repository.

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This fic was meant to be humor. But then, it was not. YET. I've got great plans for this one.

 **Robert N. Zork** : I'd named him 'Robert' in **_Coroner's Court_** , and it cracks me up so much that I decided to keep it. BTW, I'd not planned for Zork to show up. But I needed an unscrupulous lawyer figure, and he's gonna come in handy later, so I kept him.

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Up Next: Crime and punishment... Or lack thereof ;)


	2. Ryou's Father's Estate

_For Liss, who thought I'd forgotten Ryou's birthday._

 _And, to commemorate Ryou's birthday, naturally ;)_

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Even the toughest, most resilient criminals find themselves suppressing involuntary shivers when they enter: rather than a lawyer's office, most clients coincide that "Dark" Malik Ishtar's waiting room looks like the main meeting chamber of a Satanist cult.

Minus the torches. Definitely _with_ the human sacrifice –themselves.

But Ryou has a few secrets up his sleeve as well, and he's never been impressed by his tenant's taste for interior design. Disgusted, only sometimes. Weirded out, rarely (depending on the case that Malik's working on at the moment). But, impressed?

Hardly. It would take more than lugubrious lighting and a couple of (artful) black draperies and panels to affect a witch doctor.

Despite how he's been there for an occasional cup of tea, Ryou's presence in the waiting room today has a professional purpose.

The receptionist, a huge bulk of a former felon who owed his freedom (and his life) to the late Robert N. Zork, has long since given up trying to pronounce his last name, and even his first name, and he doesn't even bother to ask whether he minds that he'll announce him as 'Ryou'.

Ryou won't mind, of course. Americans massacring the sound of his beautiful Welsh name is an experience he can always forego.

10 minutes later, after Ryou has all but memorized that eerie poem hanging on the wall next to him –written by Edgar Allan Poe, and framed lovingly by the late Mr. Zork himself –the door to Dark Malik's office proper opens and out comes a rather cold-looking, model-like sprite of a woman, wearing dangerously high heels and waist-long hair that would look bleached if it didn't look so genuine.

Malik sees her off with one of his creepiest smirks.

'Tell your husband that if he's really… _committed_ to get off the hook, that it'll be my pleasure to take up his case. Buggy, give Mrs. Kaiba our contact information, and possibly an appointment, too, if you please.'

"Buggy", who is no other than the burly, massive receptionist, only grunts in response, and sees to the woman who, businesslike, stands before his desk.

'Ah, my dearest, landlord,' Dark Malik says, turning his attention to Ryou, who is no stranger to the way that his tenant goes about his business, and has been impassively watching the scene.

'Sorry if I made you wait. Shall we go in?'

Ryou nods. He'd offer Dark Malik a 'long time no see' smile, but his thoughts trouble him, and he foregoes it.

'Tea, may I assume? The usual?' Dark Malik doesn't even let him answer, and instructs "Buggy", who usually also doubles as a waiter, to bring them something to drink. Then shuts the door to his office, without even waiting for a reply.

Ryou takes a seat with a sigh. The interior of Dark Malik's office looks less like a room prepped to offer virgins to the devil, as was Mr. Zork's taste, and more like the burial chamber of some king of old –a pharaoh, maybe.

The main difference is that Dark Malik _has_ got actual torches. (Ryou asked him once about them. "It just brings memories of my childhood," Dark Malik answered, "I'm a nostalgic guy, you see.")

'So, what have you been up to?' Ryou asks his… tenant. He'd readily call him a friend, mind you, but he's thought long about it and decided that friendship usually is a two-way business, and he profoundly doubts that Dark Malik sees anyone as a friend. Maybe he'll ask him, some day- but until then, and as long as Dark Malik keeps renting his grandmother's old beach house, he'll be fine with calling him just his tenant.

'Oh, _peachy_ ,' Dark Malik says with a witty little smirk (he's been liberally using that word since he watched Labyrinth, and bonded with Jareth over their mutual taste for hair and clothes), 'Work's been delightfully chaotic and dramatic, and there's two more acquitted murderers in the streets, thanks to yours truly.'

Ryou wishes he wouldn't shiver every time that Dark Malik says that, which is more often than should be healthy for society.

'There's also a rapist. Free, I mean,' Dark Malik adds, thoughtfully, 'I sometimes have second thoughts about those. Fleeting second thoughts (he grins) But, whatever.'

Seeing Ryou's far-off expression, he magnanimously decides to cheer him up before "Buggy" brings them tea, and tells him about the woman he just saw. 'You know, landlord dearest, I'm expecting that she'll bring me something _golden_.'

Ryou feigns interest. 'Really?'

' _Oooh_ , yes. I can almost _smell_ how good it's gonna be… Or it maybe just our tea. Come on in, my Insectan friend!'

Silently, "Buggy" sets a trail on Dark Malik's desk, and leaves.

'Thank you!' Ryou calls. Buggy grunts and shuts the door.

He's in real precious company, he thinks.

Dark Malik takes his tea as black as it was brought. He usually only drinks tea when Ryou visits, and Ryou has often wondered why. It seems too… _nice_ for something Dark Malik would do. He's not asked, though.

'Now, take a draft from that tea and a cookie, and tell me what's brought you into my humble domains, landlord mine.'

Thoughtful, Ryou does just as told. When he looks up from his half-empty cup of tea, he sees Dark Malik's almost-preternatural clear eyes studying him with a thin-lipped smirk. The bizarre tattoos around his eyes (one of many mementoes from his time in prison) make his stare even more predatory. Though Ryou has seen much (and of the natural and supernatural varieties), he can safely say he's never seen eyes like those.

Very scary eyes. He's told him so. Dark Malik's reply was a hearty laugh and an honest _thank you, doc_. Doc, as in doctor. Witch doctor. He still calls him that, sometimes, though he seems to enjoy _landlord_ better. Whatever. He's mind-rambling.

Finally, Ryou speaks: 'My father died,' he says, sullenly.

Not surprisingly, Dark Malik grins widely and congratulates him. Asks him if he's up to toasting for it.

'Dude, I'm not happy about it,' Ryou chastises, and Dark Malik tries to look apologetic. He fails. His smirk seeps through.

'Too bad. And here I thought you'd remembered your humble tenant and wanted to share the good news,' Dark Malik mock-sighs, 'Now I have no choice but to get down to business –I assume that's what you came for, eh, _Rhydwyn_ …?'

'Sadly, yes, _Mr. Ishtar_ ,' Ryou sighs, though genuinely, 'Yesterday I got a call from my father's personal representative in Cardiff. Now, I know for a _fact_ that he left no will, and everything was meant to pass on to my sister and me –yeah, Amane's not of age yet, so the lot of my father's estate that she gets will be kept in trust until she's 18, we know all of that. We went through it with my father's counsel some days ago.'

Dark Malik smirks, patiently. 'So?'

'So,' Ryou almost _spats_ , 'Apparently my father's ex-wife comes up yesterday, waving a supposed will around that _nobody_ knew about, and she wants to get it through probate, but, man, that thing is as false as they come.'

Dark Malik lets out a thin whistle, 'You're gonna have to get yourself some plane tickets,' he comments, off-handedly.

'Just bought them,' Ryou answers sullenly, 'but I didn't want to leave before I consulted with you.'

'AH, here it comes!' he exclaims, raising his arms in a lofty gesture, '–precisely _what_ did you want to consult me about, hmm?'

'You see…' he bites his lower lip, not unlike flustered, 'My father left some stuff… It's mostly sentimental reasons why I want to keep it… but it's also kind of pretty valuable, from an archaeological point of view…'

'Oh, I _see_. It'd be a shame if it fell into the heathen hands of the non-savvy, wouldn't it?'

Ryou huffs. '…In a scale from 0 to 10, how illegal would it be for me to keep it?'

Dark Malik cackles, somehow under his breath.

'Dearest Ryou, it's a personal legacy to you, in the worst case –but he gave it to you himself while he was alive, remember…?'

'But, that's the point, he didn't _give_ …. _oh_.' Ryou stares at him for a while, blankly.

'Give chivalry a break, _doc_. Are you so scrupulous when you go around making zombies?'

Still trying to come to terms with his very own, non-practical righteousness, Ryou scowls at Dark Malik. 'I think we talked about this already –that's evil black magic and I do no thing of the sort. Now, if you will excuse me, I have a plane to catch…'

'Oh, come _on_ , don't be like that,' Dark Malik calls, standing up after Ryou, 'I know that plane doesn't leave for a couple of hours, or a cautious guy like you wouldn't have come all the way to talk to good old me. Tell you what. I'll buy you a drink ahead of the birthday you're gonna spend soaring over the Atlantic, and you can tell me all about zombie-making.'

Ryou wants to groan. He wants to be alone with his brooding thoughts. He wants to tell Malik to shove the booze where he could fit it, for reminding him that, indeed, he'll be spending the better part of his birthday crammed in a plane… only to land _7 hours_ later across the world, where there's gonna be little left of the second day of September for him to celebrate… amidst the paperwork on his deceased father's estate. And his horrible ex wife.

Well, at least he'll be seeing Amane. That should be nice (although he doesn't particularly like the shade of blue she's decided to dye her hair.)

He doesn't do anything of the sort, though. He lets himself be led to the door by a very perky, and quite crazy, lawyer.

'You know you won't get anything out of me, _even_ if you get me drunk, right?'

'I know,' Dark Malik says with his best smirk, 'the gods know I've tried.'

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 **Author's Note:**

MR. ZORK; guys MR. ZORKKKKKKKKKKK I'm dying.

I decided to keep most of Ryou's background from Coroner's Court, because I was pretty fond of it. If you're wondering about his full name, it's _Rhydwyn Ysbrid_.

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Up Next: 

The mysterious Mrs. Kaiba, and "Buggy"'s shady past.

...

Also Up Next:

 _'Malik… that's a chicken.'_

 _'I know. I'm training it to screech like a hawk, though.'_


	3. Dance magic, dance!

_Thanks for the wonderful reviews!_

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Wackiness runs in the family.

There are rumors that James' actual father died trying to summon an inter-dimensional being through a home-made portal in his basement. Obviously, rather than contradict the rumors, James encourages them.

That is probably the main reason why no one fully believes that story.

(Malik, however, is profoundly convinced that the rumors are the closest to the truth they'll ever get. Not that he cares much about James' family, though.)

But, annoyed by the man though he may be, and as luck will have it, James Bakura is the late Robert N. Zork's one and only nephew (and one and only living _relative_ , as far as he knows), and as such, Dark Malik is stuck with him as long as he continues to occupy Mr. Zork's former office, take care of Mr. Zork's former clients, and contribute to the 'Robert N. Zork Trust Fund for the Criminally Inclined', which is vaguely aimed at finding decent jobs for former convicts and people with a record… and which he co-administers with said James Bakura.

Who is now sitting in his otherwise vaguely-organized, and thoroughly glitter-free office, sweet talking the receptionist, who endures it through innate stoicism (and years of practice), and brings them a drink out of the sheer goodness in his heart… (if such a thing even exists, it's probably aimed solely at Bakura… and Malik too, maybe).

Bakura eyes his coffee –black as the gates of hell –in gleeful appreciation. 'And how's my most-favorite Man-Eater Bug doing?', he asks.

"Buggy" grunts, mechanically ruffles Bakura's silvery tresses, and exits silently.

"Buggy" had a dignified name, once, -it probably sounded like Buck –but none of the guys ever learnt it. Bakura was young when the huge man came into his (equally huge, mind you) uncle's service, after being mysteriously granted parole although he'd committed a first-degree felony, and having a nasty record. He'd literally owed his life to the late Mr. Zork and his procedural black-magic, (and apparently by extension to his nephew as well, as the kid had been around a lot, especially after his father's… accident… in the basement…). The man had even taken with humor to the title that the kid had given to him- Man-Eater Bug, because "Buggy"'d been accused, among other things, of cannibalism. Of the ritualistic variety.

It is Bakura, however, the only one that addresses him through his "full nobility title"–more practical people, like Malik, are satisfied with calling him just "Buggy".

… Or its related vocatives.

Dark Malik likes giving those around him a sense of security, which may or may not be false, depending on the case, but part of his tactic involves, as a rule, always drinking the same that his client, or guest, drinks.

For a while, they only talk about technicalities concerning the Zork Trust Fund. But, gradually, Dark Malik is getting annoyed by Bakura's nerve-grating habit of forcing a rhythmless rattle by clanking the danglers of the hideous golden ring that used to belong to his uncle. He doesn't do it on purpose, but if he knew how much it bothers his interlocutor, he'd probably do it even louder.

Bakura is saved, though, by Dark Malik's phone vibrating against the desk.

Regally, Dark Malik ignores Bakura's suggestively raised eyebrow, and picks up.

It's Ryou. And he's _pissed_.

After a string of very weird curses that must be Welsh, which Dark Malik patiently waits out with a mirthful smirk, he reveals the reason he's calling from across the ocean at 2.35 am Welsh time.

'That hideous tavern wench! She forged my father's handwriting! Took a random paper signed by him and played at fill-in-the blanks! The nerve of her! I'll have her descendants thrice-cursed! I'll…' … and he proceeds to be very descriptive about how he'll ruin her life in various voodooish ways. Dark Malik grins through Ryou's description.

On and off, some of Ryou's words reach Bakura's ears.

'Damn, you and the weird company you keep, man!' the silver-haired man comments, 'who's that?'

Dark Malik spares him a glance, quickly rolls his eyes, and, though he doesn't _need_ to answer, he still does- 'A friend. Give me a sec.'

Bakura shrugs, and takes out his smartphone, presumably to take care of business of his own.

On the other side of the line, Ryou, despite his fury, makes a mental note of Dark Malik's easy use of the word 'friend'.

This placates him to some extent, and he sighs. 'Anyway. I'm furious,' he explains, as though it wasn't evident, 'I can't call my solicitor at this time, but I already emailed him everything. I just wanted to hear your thoughts on the matter, you see, so that I can _finally_ go to sleep.'

Dark Malik smirks. 'I'm flattered, though I'm no expert on English law. But, do tell, landlord dearest, what riles you so?'

'That this… this… _wench_ , she means to keep what should rightfully be Amane's. But she's not 18 yet, so her interest in my father's estate is conditional.'

'Oh, I see. So you took my advice about those… items of "sentimental" value?'

'Which items would those be…?' There's a witty edge to Ryou's voice that doesn't go amiss.

Dark Malik feels _so_ honored at that moment, he could hug the man, if he were not halfway across the globe. 'I'm proud of you, my dear landlord….' he allows himself a moment to recall what the English law provides for in the matter of wills, '…oh, yes, I remembered –hear me out, Ryou. About the signature, it's gonna be valid even if it's placed somewhere weird, like the middle of the text. But, they've got a requirement for witnesses –your daddy's ex will have to _prove_ through two witnesses that your father signed that. If it's fake, she may not have them. If she's thorough, she will, and you're gonna have to get yourself an expert in calligraphy. Do this- if this wench of yours does show up with witnesses, have your counsel slow and painfully read to them all the horrible things that happen to those who commit perjury. You follow me?'

'…yeah,' Ryou says, sullenly.

'…that should be scary enough.'

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The woman's electrifying blue eyes seem to bore into his skull, but he's used to being measured by people around him. And he knows the works, too –he does it all the time, as well.

'Tell me the whole story, Mrs. Kaiba,' he says, with an inviting gesture, 'Right from the very beginning. And remind me why it is you who came, and not your dear husband.'

Her slender legs are crossed professionally, showing off toned calves and expensive designer heels. The woman carries herself in a manner that, however refined, clearly denotes that she doesn't like him any more than she likes her actual predicament.

'My husband,' she says, steely, 'Seto… is a very busy man. He often works as late as 11 pm., and with all the…' she falters for a second, '…unwanted attention this whole affair has attracted, there are days when _I_ hardly see him at all.'

He smirks, because he hardly knows the meaning of compassion.

'Plummeting profits?'

'Not necessarily,' she says, dismissively, 'publicity, of the good or bad kind is, after all, publicity. But I'm not here to discuss marketing with you, Mr. Ishtar.'

'Oh, no,' he cuts in, 'May the gods deliver us from that. So, you were about to tell me a story…'

She frowns –she clearly dislikes where she is, what she is doing, and what she is about to say. Evidently, she is a woman who dislikes conflict.

'It was late at night. Seto was touching up some underwriting contracts for the collocation of some newly-issued shares, when his father walked into his office –you will find I hardly tell you anything that's not in the police report…'

'Nevermind,' Dark Malik says, 'I'm always keen on hearing the story from the client's lips. Especially stories like your husband's. Do tell me, dear Mrs. Kaiba… may I call you Kisara? Anyway, remind me, Mr. Kaiba's father's name…?'

A fleeting blank stare informs him of what Mrs. Kaiba thinks about the lawyer addressing her on a first-name basis, but she answers, anyway, unfazed:

'Kenny Aden Kaiba. As no paper in the country failed to remind the public. Anyway. They argued. His father wanted him to agree to a merger with a competitor, but Seto said that'd be tantamount to selling his soul to the devil. His father told him that he saw no problem in it…'

'Oh, there _are_ people that committed,' comments Malik, indulging in a moment of fond remembrance of Mr. Zork, his mentor.

'Between us, he was a _disgusting_ man,' she confides, slightly surprising herself, but finding no real point in lying to the attorney, 'and I know that Seto didn't kill him, but god help me, if he _had_ , I would've understood him.'

A private, crawly smirk dances on Dark Malik's lips. 'Me too, most probably. But do go on, Kisara.'

'Seto's father lost his balance at some moment when the argument got heated, and somehow fell out of the window. It was the top floor of a twenty-storey building. Seto himself called the police immediately –and me, right afterwards. He was so distressed. I've never heard him lose his calm like that…'

She looks forlorn. She draws in breath, and continues:

'The police took him into custody because there were no witnesses –the building was empty that late at night. The judge released him on bail, which we paid in cash, naturally, although for the crime they charge him of, the amount of bail was _ridiculous_ …'

'Aggravated murder?'

'Yes,' she says, quietly, 'It's so unfair. There is no greater kindness in the world than Seto's.'

Although Dark Malik is tempted to say that the papers seemed to think otherwise, he decides it would be better not to offend such a promising client.

'We're expecting the jury's verdict one of these days, and I'm scared, Mr. Ishtar. Seto has worked hard to be where he is now, and he's risking everything in this meaningless trial. Did you know that he donates exactly one half of his yearly income to different charities?'

No, he doesn't know. What he _does_ know, is that Mr. Kaiba's wife loves him dearly. Which, for all that Dark Malik cares, will be very useful when she testifies. Honest emotions make dear impressions on the jury.

'I will be taking the case,' he informs her, with a sleek grin. 'That will require your husband to come round, as soon as he can manage. Do tell him that, if you please.'

She nods. 'About your fees…'

'Shhh,' he coos, 'One thing at a time. First the acquittal, then the payment.'

She frowns, suspicious.

'That's a rather non-lucrative thing for an attorney to say...'

'What can I say,' he says with a smile, throwing his hands up in the air, 'sometimes I fancy to do charity myself, too… or at least, until the final verdict.'

.

.

.

The afternoon is dark with low-lying clouds, and stormy with crazy winds.

Sand is flying everywhere, and Dark Malik is very happily doing his gardening, in the little patch of green behind his rented beach house, that used to belong to Ryou's grandmother. He picked that particular place because it sits, unperturbed, in the middle of huge sand dunes. He loves it- it reminds him of the desert.

He used to love reading about the desert, when he was a kid.

He's actually saving for a grand roadtrip to the Sahara when the business dies down after New Year. Until then, he's more than pleased to live his day-to-day existence in that small wooden house –that should be sunny and happy and grandmotherly, but, somehow, _isn't_.

Dark Malik is happily humming the chorus to some gory death metal song, pulling out weeds. Since he returned from work, earlier, he's been lovingly tending to his deadly nightshade orchard, which The Chicken seems to have devastated while he was doing some background checks for Mr. Kaiba's delightful case.

Well, if that bird doesn't die after accomplishing such a feat, he thinks he'll definitely have to keep him around for a solid while –Dark Malik is a firm believer in that adage, _what doesn't kill you makes you stronger._

And that Chicken, though it's a handful… he grins with a semblance of fondness. If it keeps being so destructive, it'll leave him no choice but to get him a bed and a proper name.

At some point, he senses that someone approaches. Looking over his shoulder, he sees what, from afar, looks like some cult member- all dressed in black. But as the man comes closer, he could never mistake the familiar, ashy-blond hair, the determined exotic eyes… nor the ankle-length cassock.

'Brother dearest!' Dark Malik greets, standing up, with a huge grin.

His brother doesn't seem to share this point of view.

'Malik… that's a _chicken_ ,' he points out in disbelief.

Of all the people in the world, he would have never thought that _his brother_ could stoop so low as to owning a pet. And of all the pets he could have chosen…

'I know,' Dark Malik says, proudly –'I'm training it to screech like a hawk, though.'

'You're insane,' Nam states, eyeing the golden-colored animal with doubt.

Dark Malik takes a bow: 'You know, no matter how many times you say it, it won't become any less true.'

Nam sighs. 'I know. Aren't you gonna let me in, brother?'

'Right. Where are my manners?'

Leaving his gardening gloves to the mercy of The Chicken, Malik mock-courteously opens the door for his brother, letting him into his sparsely-furnished abode. Everything is as Father Nam remembers it: airy, with a lingering arcane feeling… very sandy. Filled with books, and magical artifacts from varied cultures that seem very real.

'I know what you're gonna say, but I'll ask anyway. Can I get you anything that is not water?'

Nam shakes his head.

'Water is fine.'

'I have _pomegranate_ juice…'

'You won't tempt me.'

Dark Malik lets out a hearty laugh at their inner joke, and pours the both of them a glass of cool water.

'That's good news for you, though I'm sure that you disappoint many of your parishioners daily, with answers like those...'

'I'm not having this conversation with you,' Nam states, levelly. He'd like it if he could manage to sound less annoyed at Malik –he is, after all, his only biological brother. But almost _everything_ he does either unsettles or annoys him. And he's pretty sure that most is done deliberately to poke him.

'Which means we _could_ have it, if you were up to it'

Nam decides to capitulate. 'Yeah,' he sighs, 'We could have it. Sometimes I wonder what the Lord is thinking when he makes women think that seducing the priest is actually going to work.'

'… it might work, you never know,' Dark Malik points out.

'Yeah, not with me, though,' Nam replies with a little smirk of his own, 'but that brings me to what I wanted to ask you. Are you done watching my movie? I'd like it back.'

Two weeks ago, Nam had had the brilliant idea of lending Dark Malik the movie _Labyrinth_. Perhaps because the Goblin King reminded him so distinctively of his brother, he was not sure. But he was starting to harbor… _suspicions_.

'… but I've only watched it a couple of times. Can't I keep it another week?'

Nam addresses him as if he were addressing a child, and not a former convict-turned-brilliant-lawyer: 'I'd say "a couple of times" is enough…'

'But I'm only getting started!'

Nam sighs. 'Started on _what_ …?'

'The inspiration!' Dark Malik says, grandiosely. But Nam has had a long day (he spent the whole morning helping in an asylum, chasing after rogue patients…), and, massaging the bridge of his nose, shoots a wary glance at his brother.

'Don't tell me. The chicken, right?'

'Don't judge me. What'd you _need_ it for, anyway?' Dark Malik says, catching a loose strand of his long, wild hair, and twirling it absentmindedly.

'I use it to teach the kids preparing to take the communion,' Nam explains, rather excited, 'It's great to show how though we might be tempted with grand things, we always have the power to say _no_. It's about how faith gives you strength.'

'… it's about how a perfectly reasonable guy offers a silly girl perfectly reasonable chances, and she refuses him, time and again. It breaks my heart every time I watch it… Can't you download it?'

'I usually liken the Goblin King to the devil, so that you know,' Nam says, pointedly, 'And no, I _can't_ download it. A, it's illegal, B, it was a gift. _You_ go download it.'

'Don't tempt me!' Dark Malik exclaims, mocking horror, 'That's _illegal!_ '

It is at that very moment that, screeching, The Chicken storms into the room, knocking over a broom and spilling Nam's water all over the floor.

Both brothers stare at the rampant animal, which finally goes into the kitchen to run amok there, stupidly, in circles.

'What the heck was that?' Nam asks, creeped out.

But Dark Malik thinks about the deadly nightshade and the lack of brain in birds, and, eventually, breaks into fits of laughter.

Eventually, weirded out but amused, nonetheless, Nam also starts to laugh.

.

.

.

* * *

 **Author's Note:**

hahaha omg, this is terrible, no one's got a living father in this story so far, hahaha, and even Zork had to die before he became a father figure hahaha omg this is really terrible.

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"From the creators of "Mr. Zork", comes… Kenny Aden Kaiba!" (from Akhenaden, y'know? xD)

hahahaha omg, this kills me, their nameeees, I have so much fuuuuuuuun

Father Nam- or rather, Father Regular Malik. Gosh, I totally see him as a priest!

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UP NEXT:

… we find out what James Bakura does for a living.

And the chicken returns… whether from the grave, you'll have to read to find out!

Comments please! Bye byeeee!


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